The Child's Eye
by TheArtist59
Summary: When Sherlock and John investigate a burglary, they never expected to find a child with similar capabilities to the consulting detective. How will Sherlock cope with someone so young, whose observational skills are off the charts? What will happen?
1. Chapter 1: Thorn

**Chapter 1: Thorn **

The pale white moon streaked across the seats of the taxi, illuminating Sherlock's silver eyes in the blackness. John Watson traced a circle on the cold car window, looking out at the golden glow of London's lights. People rode the Eye in the distance, the grand old Ferris wheel spinning sleepily in the dark. Lampposts were strung with shimmering ornaments for Christmas, and the scent of pine was heavy in the air. Snow drifted in delicate wisps to the sidewalk. It was beautiful all over England that night: but Sherlock barely glanced at the glistening ice, the tinsel stars, or the smoky evergreens. No, the world's only consulting detective was focused on his latest case. There was no room for splendor. "Sherlock, you've dragged me along with you all day, pestering me about a new case. It might help if you told me what was going on," John complained. "With you and your bloody energy, you're constantly throwing yourself into danger. It's a wonder we're still alive." Sherlock rolled his eyes but cleared his throat, before handing a folded newspaper to his flat-mate. Water streaked across the page with bleeding fingers, marring the portrait of a young woman with a sapphire necklace wrapped around her slender throat. The woman had dark brown hair which cascaded around her shoulders in soft waves. Her thin fingers reached up to lightly touch the deep blue jewels. "This is Cordelia Rivers. Her necklace, worth fifty thousand pounds, is missing. It appears there was a break-in two days ago at her apartments; she contacted the police, but they weren't able to find any traces of evidence, so she called me. Scotland Yard is full of incompetence." The younger Holmes hissed the last part. "And we're going to their home _now?_ It's almost two in the morning," John pointed out. Sherlock sent him an icy glare. "Miss Rivers said she would prefer a later investigation. I don't usually sleep anyway, so…" he shrugged. "Well, not all of us are robots," John muttered. Sherlock fell silent, and John sighed, realizing it would be another long night…

The worn rubber tires purred to a halt in the fringe of lily-white snow. Sherlock paid the fare, popped the corners of his collar to deflect the wind, and ruffled his thick curls. His sharp cheekbones graced his face with regality, and his Belstaff whipped majestically in the wind. "Do you always have to be so dramatic?" John quipped, beating his friend to the faded red door. Knocking briskly, he watched as Sherlock stepped forward to inspect the doorframe. His eyes flitted quickly across the material. "The woman who lives here is OCD, because the knocker is perfectly straight, and the slip of paper with her name on it is written perfectly. She is a size seven, considering the length of the footprints on the doormat; they have a ginger cat, receive the Yellow Pages, and have been living here for a while judging by the wear on the doorbell you neglected to use," the detective pushed the button, leaving to John to blush. A moment passed before the door opened and the woman from the newspaper peeked out. She was lovely; with a dusting of black eyelashes, pink cheeks, and her brown hair curled into a loose bun. "Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson," Sherlock greeted briefly, extending his hand. They both shook firmly, before the woman let them through into her flat. "Please, come and sit at the table," she offered. She led the two men into another room filled with spindly antiques. The peeling wallpaper was dressed with violets, the lace drapes riddled with holes, and the rusted pipes groaned in the walls. John could tell that the room was once beautiful; Russian teacups balanced on an ancient desktop, a gilded statue of a goddess perched on a lamp. Useless treasures were scattered everywhere, hidden beneath twinkling layers of dust. "I'm afraid it's a little cold in here," Cordelia apologized. "The heat is broken." Sherlock waved it away, and then began to question her. "What a lovely home," he began, confusing his friend. The detective _never_ complimented clients. "Oh, why thank you. It was originally my grandmother's house. She had a taste for Victorian styles. When she passed away, she left all of her furniture here." A fond smile lingered on her rosy lips for a moment before fading. "You inherited this from your grandmother? Where are your parents?" Sherlock asked. At the mention of them, her face crumpled slightly. "They died while she was still alive. That was about five years ago. Gran perished two years after that." Sherlock folded his clever hands underneath his pale chin. "How did they die?"

"They went on a vacation in the Caribbean. They went swimming in the ocean but they drowned. Their bodies were found drifting a few hours later." She looked so upset that John placed his rough hand on her smooth white one. She smiled again, appreciatively. "I work as-"

"A governess," Sherlock interrupted. "Your charges are four to six years old, if the wrinkles on your skirt are any indication. You wear clothes appropriate for play, but not anything revealing. Your hair is simple, your posture casual. You have sharp eyes which look for faults, and flexible shoes for running." Cordelia looked shaken, but John just shook his head at her. "This is how he operates, reads you like a book. Often he seems to know your secrets better than you do. He can tell your entire life story by a wrinkle in your forehead," he explained. "It's bloody creepy if you ask me," he continued, winking. She laughed before addressing Sherlock again. "How marvelous. I certainly hired the best. I've heard wonderful tales of you, Mr. Holmes." All of a sudden, there was an ear-splitting crash. All three of them leapt to their feet, startled. Cordelia's face was ashen as she fled to a winding staircase, engraved with pictures of suns and moons. A feline mewed anxiously, dashing from the staircase, its reddish fur darting underneath a chair. "Thorn? Are you hurt? Thorn!" the woman's cries became increasingly panicked as she began to climb the steps, picking up her thin, angelic skirt as she did so. A timid voice floated downstairs. "I'm fine, Delia. Thank you for your concern, but everything is okay." Cordelia's face relaxed and she cupped her bun in one hand, smoothing her skirt, before calling: "Please come down. Now." Her voice was firm and motherly, Sherlock noted. Could she be caring for a child? His suspicions were confirmed as a girl glided along the polished bannister and to the floor below. She was slender, wearing a pink slip and had ink black hair French braided and tucked across a bony shoulder. "What is it?" she sounded impatient. Sherlock deducted that she was eight years old, was fond of painting due to the calluses on her hand where she had gripped the brush, and had a rebellious nature. "Thorn, what happened? We heard the crash from here. What were you doing _this_ time?" There was a pause. Thorn stared into Cordelia's eyes, her warm brown ones reminding Sherlock of melting chocolate. "I was experimenting again… a beaker shattered when I added a certain chemical. Don't worry, I cleaned up the glass. I think Lucifer might have a shard in his paw, though." She gestured to the fluffed up tom sulking in the corner. Cordelia sighed before reaching out and lightly brushing the girl's cheek. "You have to be more careful, Thorn. If you were hurt, I could never forgive myself." She stepped back and scooped the disgruntled cat into her arms. "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is my little sister Thorn. She was here when the burglary occurred. You may question her, if you like." Sherlock motioned to her with distaste. "She's only a child: I doubt she remembers anything of importance, or will confuse her facts."

Thorn gazed at the two men petulantly, before scanning John, her irises instantly ablaze. "You would be surprised," she challenged the detective. "I can read your flat-mate right to left." Sherlock's silver eyes narrowed, tinged with blue fire. "Go on, then. Let's see what you can deduce." He leaned against the staircase, his lean body arching to fit the curves of the banister. Thorn snapped her focus to the whiskered blond doctor.

"You're a physician, and an ex-soldier. You have a limp, but you carry yourself like a captain. I can see the grooves on the inside of your hand from where you held a gun in place. You were sent home because of a leg injury. You're allergic to cats due to the irritation around your eyes, and are sleep-deprived. Most likely because of your friend here." She looked at Sherlock, her dancing eyes flickering with mischief. "The conditions of the universe made me too young for most people to take me seriously. I hope we do not have that problem, Mr. Holmes." John's mouth opened slightly in shock: it was like he was searching the face of a young Sherlock. "Thorn!" the icy voice of Cordelia chastened her. "I told you not to make deductions like that! You'll frighten the neighbors away." Thorn blushed slightly. "I'm sorry, but I had to prove a point. Not all children are clueless, wandering around, skipping rocks and whistling like in old films. I'm capable of explaining part of the mystery to the revered detective." She cast a sly look at Sherlock. "But if you won't listen to me, then I'll leave…" she added. She wandered over to the stairwell, stretching a toned calf before running a pale finger over the dark cherry wood. "No, don't leave. I can see I've made a mistake. May we speak together?" Sherlock protested quickly, sealing his decision. Thorn looked at Cordelia who nodded after a beat. "Show him to the living room, dear. And take care of Lucifer's paw." The elder Rivers handed the fiery tangle of fur to Thorn, before offering John a cup of hot tea; they migrated to the kitchen like birds to the south. Cradling the cat to her chest, Thorn ghosted into another part of the embellished flat, leaving Sherlock no choice but to follow.

**A/N: Hello! Do you like it so far? Don't worry, this is just a preview, you'll learn more about her in the next chapter. Do you like Thorn's observant character? I'm sorry for all of the descriptiveness, I'll try to cut back on it in future chapters. This is my first Fanfiction, so please, review, critique, and continue reading! Would you like to see an update? Should I move forward with this? Please let me know! **

**-TheArtist59**


	2. Chapter 2: Similarities

**Chapter Two: Similarities **

The living room's high windows were dusted with blue frost and the heating vents sputtered and coughed sickly. Sherlock perched on the edge of a creaking black chair while Thorn struck a match, the burst of wavering flame flaring brightly in the dim lighting. The detective watched her soundlessly as she piled heavy logs in the grimy fireplace before igniting the rough wood. Then she turned to Sherlock. "What would you like to ask me?" She wondered, in so quiet a voice that Sherlock had to strain his young ears painfully. Lavender and gold tassels hung loosely from the carpet's moth-eaten ends, smoke wisped regretfully into the air, and the grandfather clock ticked rhythmically in a corner. "Where were you when the burglary happened?" He asked. Thorn twisted her black braid around her finger. "Coming home from photography class, at three. I reached the flat at 3:17. I was wearing a watch." She began to coax Lucifer to give her his paw. The cat's whiskers shimmered in the firelight. "And you were alone?"

"Yes. Delia works late on Mondays. I take the tube from my school every afternoon. It was darker than usual, because it was winter. I was hurrying, noting the snow clouds looming above the city. When I came home, I automatically knew someone was inside." Sherlock's silver eyes were tinged with blue fire. "How did you know?"

"The knocker was at an angle. Delia is OCD, so she keeps everything perfectly straight. The first page from the phone directory was torn where someone had stepped on it. The doorknob was wet, even though it's protected from the weather by a canopy outside. That meant someone had gripped it with a damp hand. Honestly, the thieves were careless." She removed the glass shard from Lucifer's pad, holding up the blood soaked piece to her eye, magnifying her rich irises as she looked through it. "Did you enter the flat?" Sherlock questioned. "Not by the front entrance. I crept around the back, slipped through an open window, and bent down, placing an ear on the floorboards. I could hear footsteps. The steps were heavy, suggesting a man. But there was another pair, which was soft and light, resembling a woman's." the detective tightened his pale blue scarf, wrapped around his swan-like neck. "You can't be sure of that. It could be a fleet-footed man, or even a child."

"Balance of probability, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock stared into her teasing brown eyes which sparked with the fire of laughter: she looked like a warm version of Mycroft- without the bleak blue stones of eyes and lined face of his. "What happened next?"

"Any hope of preserving the necklace was gone. I hid in an alcove behind the stairs until they descended, the sapphires strung around the woman's hands. They crept to the door, and left." She paused, listening to the snap of the kindling and the wind howling through the ceiling's cracks. "But you _saw_ the criminals. What did they look like?" Sherlock pressed. "Search your mind; did they have any unusual features? Were they older? What color was their hair?" He mussed his curls with a growl. "The man had scars on his neck and ear, with a whiskered brown beard and a deep voice. The woman was dripping with soft pearls and wore a tattered black shawl." Sherlock hissed in frustration. "Details! I need documentation, meticulous observations. I thought I could trust you with such a simple task," he scorned. Thorn combed through her inky locks, pale fingers entwined with a black streak. "I can remember everything perfectly, if you'll let me finish," she replied coolly. "What? How is that possible?" Sherlock snapped, the half-moon of his eyes flashing with confusion. "I was going to tell you," the girl purred amusedly. "I took their photographs before they left. I was coming from class, remember." She handed two grainy prints to Sherlock, glossed with shadows and highlights. The detective studied them. Their profiles were displayed: a middle-aged woman with a round cheek and russet hair curling around her ear. A man with a square jaw, his sharp scars jagged as they told a story on the contours of his face. "I may not be as brilliant as you, Mr. Holmes," she twittered. "But I know a good photo opportunity when I see one!" Then she laughed, the sound all silver and falling rain. Sherlock smiled in spite of himself.

…..

It was three in the morning when Sherlock and Thorn spoke quietly together, sipping steaming cups of tea in half-light. The detective was intrigued by her: her face had suddenly taken an odd blank bath, her eyes washed with distance, partway through a discussion of the Roman Empire. "Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Holmes. She's in what I call a 'missing' stage. She wanders into her thoughts and becomes ensnared in them for a while. She calls it her Mind Isle, or something weird like that. She'll usually pull out of it though." Cordelia poured milk into her own cup, the weathered saucer looking too fragile for use. When she wandered off, Thorn seemed to shake herself before looking sheepishly at Sherlock. "Was I out long?" she asked softly, brushing a stray lock of dark hair out of her eyes. He shook his head. "Mine is a palace," he told her absently, spooning brown sugar into his drink. The light powder floated in the hot water before it was stirred in thoroughly. Thorn's smooth skin gleamed in the low light. "Just like yours is an island, I organized my brain like a palace. It's useful for storing information. But you'd know how it works," he said thoughtfully. "What does an island look like?" There was a long pause before she answered. "There's a cave, filled with details of people. Enemies, a few friends scattered here and there. An oasis is where I keep my most precious memories. A cove for different places I've been, a beach with the more useless information. You know, like what color I'm painting, or a favorite scent. It changes, though." Sherlock nodded, dusting off his long sleeves. "You paint-what do you like to draw?" he distracted her. He was honestly shocked: it was like looking at a young version of himself. When he was a little boy, he would methodically file away information for hours, waiting for the chance to use it. "I paint landscapes, sometimes. People once in a while. It depends." Thorn shrugged. "Do you like school?" Sherlock inquired, shivering. Schools were confining places: filled with linoleum floors, teachers who thought they were cleverer than you, children jeering at your ill-concealed talents. "I hate it there," she admitted. "I enjoy art class, and occasionally English. But everything is so _dull. _There's never a challenge, never a test I can't pass. It's _infuriating._" The detective nodded sympathetically, Lucifer winding between the kitchen chairs, shedding fur on the cold floor. "When I was a boy, I would outwit the teachers. I had to move academies three times because they would complain to my parents so much." He looked at her. "Eventually, if you skip grades, you'll break free of the system. It's hell until then, though." Thorn agreed, and they basked in each other's words until Cordelia came in, chipped saucer in hand. "It's nearly four in the morning, Thorn," she pointed out. "You'll be sick tired. Clean up, and then off to bed with you."

With a heavy sigh, Thorn trotted to the kitchen sink, cleansing the teacups in warm water, and drying them hastily before balancing them in the cupboard. When she finished, she walked over to Sherlock and John, who had emerged from a corner. "Thank you for your time," she said politely, stepping back to let Cordelia finish up. "Yes," her older sister agreed, warmly shaking both men's hands. "With just the two of us living here, and me taking care of Thorn, It's been a struggle to find a competent detective. We're lucky to have hired you." She smiled graciously, before leading both men to the door. With a quiet goodnight to both Rivers, Sherlock and John hailed another taxi, the snow still drifting from a dark sky. As the cab rolled sleepily to a standstill, the doctor turned to his flat-mate. "The little girl, Thorn. She's very intelligent. She's just like you," he commented, scratching his greying hair. Sherlock bundled into the car, scarf whipping, eyes lit with an invisible match. "Yes. Yes she is."

**A/N: Hi again! Two chapters today, because it didn't seem finished without it. Thorn shows herself a little more clearly, here. I have high hopes that she and the detective will meet again… Please review, criticize, and read on! Thank you:**

**DarkMagicWriter! **

**-TheArtist59**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Bruises **

Five days later, Sherlock captured the thieves. Lestrade had posted black and white photographs of the suspects on city lampposts and arching streetlights: but it was the detective who found them holed away in a dingy hotel room in a rough English neighborhood. The dusty windowpanes, glazed with icicles, the radiator purring softly, the lint lining the bland carpeting: an impoverished façade concealing a crime. Sherlock grinned as he pocketed the necklace, its resplendent blue color glinting in the light…

Sherlock and John rapped impatiently on the reddish door of the River's flat once again. Sherlock's eyes missed the vibrant colors of the day, the tender buds blooming from the awoken trees, and the warm sun finally thawing the snow into silver beads. The lilac curtains from the windows fluttered as a pair of cautious brown eyes peered out: then they were gone in a wisp of black hair. The door opened, then, the wood creaking on its loose hinges. "Mr. Holmes, I saw the paper this morning: You found my necklace! We're indebted to you, aren't we, Thorn?" The twinkling voice of Cordelia reminded John of singing larks and wind chimes: her skin resembled melted honey in the sun's rays, and her wavy hair was twisted around a shoulder, a delicate white flower tucked into a brown strand. Sherlock saw a lithe, ice-white figure creep around a corner, slinking into the foyer. "Yes, certainly," Thorn agreed quietly. The detective noticed that her sleek sheen of coal colored hair hid half of her face, and she was taking up a defensive stance. Her voice was a chilling rasp instead of the sweet wash of words from before. "Please, come in. You must explain everything in detail," Cordelia insisted. A brief expression of panic painted over Thorn's features, but she hid it behind an impassive mask as she tip-toed through the hallway into the kitchen, no traces of dance left in her stride. Sherlock was confused, thoughts flashing through his brain like fish in cold water. _Is she intimidated by me? If so, why? I wasn't hostile towards her earlier in the week, was I? Is she taken aback by how similar we are? Did I strike a sore spot? Is she unexpectedly shy? _He shook his head, his thick curls whispering in the light breeze. He would have to decode it later…

Thorn, John, Cordelia, and Sherlock were arranged around the floral-print sofa in the living room. Sherlock explained how he had tracked down the lowly crooks, winding through dark English streets, searching hotel guest lists, breaking into drug dens, and riding in taxi after taxi until he managed to fit the pieces of the crime together, an endless map inside his head. "I had to threaten the concierge station at the hotel they were staying in until they cracked," he admitted, streaking a slender hand through his shock of tousled hair. Thorn was lost in her thoughts, her irises distant and cloud-like as Sherlock handed the glinting sapphires back to Cordelia. "I suggest taking better care of them," he advised coldly. "Now all of London knows where these jewels are." The elder Rivers' eyes were glazed with clear tears. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes. You've saved us, truthfully. It's difficult enough to pay the electrical bills when you're surviving off of the measly salary of a governess. I'm sure you've noticed how weathered everything looks; yes, the trinkets and knickknacks are beautiful, but they're coated in rust, or hidden under sheets, the curtains filled with holes, mothballs piled in the wardrobe. The heat isn't broken- I cut it off, because it was getting too expensive. I was just too embarrassed to tell you." Cordelia hung her head in shame, a bashful blush penciling red into her cheeks like a crayon. Suddenly, her eyes brightened like stars. "But now we have something to fall back on, in case of an emergency. You have no idea what your service means to us, both of you." She smiled gratefully at the two men. Sherlock coughed uncomfortably before John stood up, trying to ease the tension. "Could I trouble you for a glass of water? I have a bit of a cough," he lied smoothly. Cordelia nodded graciously. "Of course. Please, follow me." She led the good doctor out of the room, and into the kitchen. This gave Sherlock an opportunity to speak with Thorn. "Why are you covering your face?" he demanded in his rich baritone. His pale skin was kissed by the light streaming through the windows. Rectangles of golden splendor from the sun were blotted onto the carpet. Another flicker of fear shot through the girl's eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, listlessly tracing an intricate design on the sofa's silk fabric. "Your hair," the detective pressed, mouth set into a hard black line. "It's concealing half of your features." When Thorn looked at him blankly, he sighed, inching closer. She flinched as he reached out, wincing as he slowly drew back the slippery curtain of her sleek black locks. Not even the great Sherlock Holmes was prepared for what he saw. Violet bruises stained her right cheek, her forehead cut with scarlet slashes tearing down one side. Swelling made her eye close up, looking like a breath of air beneath the skin, refusing to let go. Nicks and scratches outlined her temple, and a fist-like mark showed in the light as the sun rained down on the fresh injuries. Before he could say anything, Thorn wrenched away from his light grip on her chin, darting like a wounded animal across the room and up the staircase to the floor above: he listened to the light patter of her feet before they faded with distance. Sherlock was troubled, shocked even. What could she have done to deserve that? What happened? There was only one way to find out.

Cordelia and John had just finished a lovely discussion on the nature of bird-watching, a favorite hobby of the River's, when Sherlock barged roughly through the door. "What happened?" he hissed, silver eyes shaded with danger. Cordelia looked bemused. "Her _face_. I saw the marks, the bruising. What _happened?_" The woman's tired eyes instantly drooped until she looked much older. "Oh, you mean Thorn. She was being… harassed at school. She apparently was lecturing a child on their incorrect use of the word _your _instead of _you're_. After school, they cornered her behind a grove of trees. There were five of them." Her voice broke at the end.

"She's so intelligent. She comes home and reads books on chemistry, philosophy, architecture. I know it's… _unnatural_ but she's never been ashamed of it. She used to steal articles from teacher's archives, and then replace them when she was finished. But _now_ she's been beaten, attacked. She won't leave the house, won't read, and won't talk. She hides her face with her hair, or uses my foundation. She'll stay in her room for hours and paint. I don't know what she sketches, but she refuses to eat until I force her. It's agonizing. And the worst part is, I don't know what to do or say to comfort her. I've tried, believe me: I've told her how beautiful she is, and how exceptionally talented. But she won't listen." A few tears leaked down and dampened an old magazine cover. John searched the aged woman's face. "Have you taken her to the doctor yet? How bad is it?" His clear blue eyes were filled with the depths of concern. Cordelia shook her head, pulling the white flower from her hair and twirling the green stem absently in her fingers. "No, she won't see a doctor. She's not in any danger though. I make her ice the swelling three times a day." Her voice, usually so gentle and melodious, was now sad and wilted. "She won't listen to me. But maybe, she would listen to _you?_" She glanced hopefully at Sherlock, the flower suffocated in her grip. "You're so alike. When you left that night, I realized a change in her. She was convinced that nobody was similar, that she was condemned to isolation. She has no friends, few admirers. But when you came along, she realized that wasn't true. Please, if there's any chance at all that you could help her, to alter her attitude- I have to ask you to do it." Cordelia's words touched John, who was ever-sensitive. He flashed a look at Sherlock, who sighed deeply. "Alright. I admit- we _are_ alike. I went through the same thing as a child. Maybe I can coax her out of this apparent depression." With a withering look at the white flower drooping in Cordelia's hand, he exited the quaint kitchen, bounding up the wooden staircase without another word.

With each light footstep, Sherlock understood why Thorn had been so reluctant to letting him enter the flat. She had been anxious that he would reveal her disturbing secret- and was correct. Choking on ruthless guilt, Sherlock paced a few impatient feet in front of her decorated bedroom door. Festive Christmas lights were strung across it, emitting a frosty glow. Painted letters spelling her name draped across the panels in a crooked pattern. _What will I say? What will she say? Will she drive me out? Refuse my company? _For once, Sherlock didn't know what to do. Children were strangely unpredictable. They were complicated, and layered like a tiered cake; they were also sorely unforgiving. One wrong move and- "Mr. Holmes?" an incredulous voice asked. "What are you doing here?" Thorn's small head peeked warily around the embellished door, but only halfway. Her tone was course, accusing. "I came to see you," the detective replied calmly. "May I come in?" he gestured to the concealed room. Thorn hesitated, her one pooling brown eye darkening with thought. Then she opened the door wider. "Yes, you may." The soft, defeated reply made Sherlock's buried heart twinge for some reason. She backed away from the entrance so he could get through, locking it tightly after him. When he stepped inside, he nearly gasped aloud. Paintings covered the artistic space from ceiling to floor. The roof was rotunda-like, because the apartment was renovated in an old-fashioned building. Swirls of color lit up the room invitingly. He soaked in the scene, entranced: canvases, thick paper tacked to walls, collages pinned to furniture, photographs taped to a mirror. The bed's headboard was swollen with scenes of children sleeping all over the world. A rough sketch of a man and woman dominated an entire corner. _Her parents?_ Portraits of African animals, historical figures, and strangers hinted from behind larger paintings. And in the center of the room was a towering canvas, colored a foreboding blue. Sherlock squinted as he inspected the picture: he recognized it as a portrayal of Thorn. Her face was twisted: one half highlighted with dark colors, her mouth stitched into a scream. Bruises marred the skin, more severe than in real life. The other half of her face looked lost, searching the critic's analysis with a painted stare.

"Is that how you see yourself?" he asked quietly, sitting cross-legged on the floor to get a better angle of the painting. The girl's thick lashes batted and her cheeks became tinged with pink. "Yes, at the moment," she answered quietly, crouching next to the detective. "Why?" he wondered aloud, the image of her damaged face tangling his intestines. "When I look in the mirror," Thorn began slowly, her voice even. "I see _her._" She motioned to the monstrous snake of a human on the canvas. "When I speak to people, let them understand my true self, this is what _they_ see." She shrugged as if brushing it off: but Sherlock could tell how upset she was. "I don't see that," he commented, winding his scarf more securely around his long neck. Thorn laughed bitterly. "Delia told you what they did to me, what happened to my face. You can see it for yourself. You can't look me in the eye and tell me that you see an angelic little kid. That dream died before it became a nightmare." She folded her thin fingers into a heart shape. Sherlock's hands ghosted to her hair, ignoring her cowardice. He gently held her smooth chin in one hand while tucking the midnight black strands behind an ear. He brought a delicate finger up and traced the bruises with the lightness of a butterfly landing on a new leaf. "I don't see any angels. But I don't see any devils either." He gestured to the painting again. "You can't let people do this to you. Your brain is a gift. I experienced the same thing when I was your age. I shut down. Don't do the same thing." He stroked her cheek briefly before dropping his hand. "Leave your hair where it is. Don't hide yourself." An inkling of a smile curved around his face. "Here," he picked a pen off of the floor, before cradling the back of her hand: he stained the skin with bleeding red ink, scribbling an address. "Write to me. 221B Baker Street." And with a final shy smile, he rose to his feet, leaving her room as quickly as he came.

**A/N: Here's a third chapter already: The updates will become more spaced out soon, but I'm on break right now, so I have a lot of time to write. If you're reading this, thank you so much for your support, comments, follows, and time. Please critique and review! Thank you: **

**Chotze **

**Until next time.**

**-TheArtist59**


	4. Chapter 4: Letters

**Chapter Four: Letters **

Four dreary months had passed since Sherlock and Thorn had spoken. The silver thicket of winter had melted into the earthy tones of spring: the soil in Mrs. Hudson's flowerpot was damp with April rain. Red and white blossoms emerged, craving sun. Now you could see the fleeting oil rainbows when sunlight hit the street. Cement was blurred with chalk pictures. Youthful plants stretched. Pollen was the new perfume. England was awake.

Even if the storm clouds had faded from London's landscape, Sherlock was depressed. Snapshot: Bored. Brooding. Stony. Ice-like. Fingers callused from the violin. Hands folded. Bullets shed from a gun as the wall was pelted. Old newspapers flaking on the table. Music sheets piled in stacks. Clock ticking. Cigarettes searched for. Cigarettes not found. Clock ticking. Thinking. Numb. Thinking. Clock ticking. Scowling. Thinking. Waiting. Always waiting.

The only thing Sherlock found pleasure in, the only thing able to pull him out of a mood, were Thorn's letters. She wrote to him constantly. Once a week. Twice a week. Thrice a week. Every day. Sherlock keeping up. Fingers cramped from replying. Tongue sore from licking the envelope. Stamps cornered on the page. Thorn would write meticulously: the exact scent of Cordelia's nightgown. (Spice and pine.) Her new favorite color. (Infra Red.) Her _real_ favorite color. (Green.) _Green like the soft carpets of forests. _She wrote. _Green like grass on Swiss hills. _Pages of deductions. _I saw a man today, who had just been to a bakery on the east of London. I could tell because of the jam samples staining his tie. The only place they have that jam is The Daily Crêpe… He was so surprised when I asked how the jam tasted. _Occasionally a photograph. _Don't I look silly here? My hair is so uneven. Cordelia saw an online video for a 'quick trim.' The video's slogan was- 'I don't __**care**__ for my boring __**hair**__.' I told Delia that she shouldn't trust __**any**__ video with a slogan as stupid as that. But did she listen? Just take a look at my crooked bangs for the answer. _Sherlock pinned the photo on the wall where he usually kept magazine clippings or relevant articles for cases. Her image was frozen in place, always within the detective's sight.

In response, he complained to her about Scotland Yard's ignorance, about the unfairness of the universe, demanding why people just can't _think._ He sent her detailed accounts of the dull clients who visited him, only to have their cases rejected. _And the woman didn't even answer! She was stunned into silence that I had revealed her 'secret' affair to her devoted husband. Not so secret any more, I guess…_ Or, _Mrs. Hudson stole my skull again. _Sometimes: _Violin is boring. Daily life is boring. People are boring. Make it stop, Thorn._ While they both cherished each other's letters, it wasn't the same as really seeing each other. The detective yearned for an opportunity to see her again. Thorn anguished for the similarity Sherlock possessed. Little did they know their wish would soon be fulfilled…

John came into the living room, holding a thick manila envelope. It was addressed to _Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street_ as usual. Sherlock was drifting through a void of thoughts when his companion entered the untidy flat. One listless eye open, but staring into a distant dream, he hummed a quick greeting as John tossed the envelope to him. "I'm going to change out of my work clothes," he announced, wandering into the next room, not waiting for a reply. Sherlock, still lethargic from a wave of mindless thoughts, tore open the paper without bothering to deduce anything about it. He figured it was another letter from Thorn, as always. A smile glinted lackadaisically in his eyes as he thought fondly of her. But then, as his lunar-like eyes skimmed the page, he straightened his posture abruptly, the kind of posture noted in the backs of ballerinas. The neat script handwriting displayed was nothing like the untidy artist's scrawl Thorn used. He scanned the last line of the page. _Cordelia. This is a letter from the elder Rivers- but why?_ Terrifying thoughts jetted through his mind, wondering if something terrible had happened to Thorn. He imagined a car hitting her, crushing her spine like a deer in headlights. He also imagined her being tortured, beaten, kidnapped… _Snap out of it, idiot, _he reprimanded himself. Taking a calming breath, he started properly, at the beginning. This is what the note read:

_Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. John Watson, _

_I am bashful for writing this letter to you. I'm blushing slightly because I am so ashamed of the favor I am about to ask. Two days ago, my employer, Mrs. Claymont, demanded for me to accompany her and her children to a riverside resort somewhere in the country. As a governess, she wishes for me to care for the young ones while she is dining and socializing with her hosts. She insists that even getting an invitation to the resort is of enormous importance to her husband, Mr. Claymont, as he is a lawyer. She emphasizes the need for business in the harsh economy, and is convinced that these mysterious hosts will send clients their way, should they attend. I am not writing to you for pleasure, Mr. Holmes, as is plain: I must ask that you look after Thorn while I am away. Mrs. Claymont has forbidden me to bring her along, even if she were to stay sealed in a room for the entire trip. I trust you, Mr. Holmes, to protect my little sister, treating her with the kindest care possible. I am not easily trusting, but as we have no other family in the world, you were the obvious choice. Thorn has promised to be on her best behavior, and you may call me at any time- my number will be given to you later. Should you accept, I have enclosed a sum of money to cover any costs of her stay with you: although you are more than welcome, of course, to spend the time at our house, if you wish. The duration of the trip will last one week, from Monday to Friday. I will collect her at any time convenient upon my return. Obviously, you will be compensated for your gracious services. _

_I eagerly await your hasty reply, understanding if this task is not possible for you. Either way, please contact Thorn as soon as you can. _

_Very Sincerely, _

_Cordelia Rivers. _

Sherlock almost leaped in the air with pure happiness. He would finally see Thorn again. Their conversations would no longer be lengthy letters, their ideas cramped in envelopes, their words blotted on printer paper. He wondered if she had changed at all since he last saw her. Maybe he would even drag the girl along on a case… _What am I thinking? I have no idea how to care for children- even ones as clever as Thorn... What if John refuses? Where will she sleep? What if I don't recognize her? _He was so caught up with his anxieties, he didn't realize that he was speaking aloud. John had returned in an indigo jumper, the paper tucked under his left arm. "Where will who sleep? It's not one of your homeless network again, is it?" the weary doctor rubbed his wrinkled forehead. "Because I'm _not_ surrendering my bed to another stranger." Sherlock glanced at his friend. "Don't be ridiculous, John. It's Thorn- Cordelia has asked us to take care of her for the week." John blinked at him. "Thorn? The little girl you constantly write to?" he looked puzzled. "_No _John," Sherlock's words dripped sarcasm. "The _other _one. Of course it's the 'little girl I constantly write to.' Who else would it be?" The lightbulb in the orange lamp flickered, casting the detective's lean body on the far wall. A butterfly danced across the windowpanes, then fluttered off, white wings in a dark sky. "Well… I guess we could look after her. It's only for a week, isn't it? She can sleep in your room. You never rest anyway, nocturnal bastard." Sherlock nodded, contemplating. "Do you think she'll work on the next case with me? Her observational skills are… astounding," he murmured. John's mouth fell open, pink tongue lolling. "No. No. No. No cases for her, Sherlock. Every time, we're either fired at, drowned, or abducted. I see more action on one of your little 'adventures' than I did in Afghanistan. She's only eight years old." When he noticed the mysterious glint in his flat mate's eyes, he stamped his socked foot. "I'm serious, Sherlock. _No cases._" The detective just smiled slyly. "We'll see," he replied, trailing into the other room.

It was seven in the morning on Sunday when Sherlock mailed the hasty acceptance letter to Thorn, an **Urgent Mail **Sticker sealed to the front:

_Thorn, and most probably Cordelia as well:_

_I would be very obliged to take care of you, Thorn. Please don't compensate me at all for the week. Take a cab to Baker Street tomorrow. I will see you then._

_-Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective _

He smiled to himself as he listened to the satisfying flutter as the envelope drifted to the bottom of the mailbox. Now, if only there was a case…

**_A dapper, middle-aged man with a red and gold striped tie walked down a crowded street, mobile phone pressed to his ear. On the other end, his stylish blond secretary chattered brightly, in a glass office building. _**

_Man: What do you mean there's no ruddy car?_

_Secretary: He went to Waterloo, I'm sorry. Get a cab. _

_Man: I never get cabs. _

_Secretary: __**glancing over her shoulder to make sure she's alone: realizing she is, she whispers into the receiver**__. I love you. _

_Man: __**Mischievously **__When? _

_Secretary: __**laughing quietly. **__Get. A. Cab. _

_To Be Continued…_

**A/N: Okay, here's a hint of A Study in Pink! I'm changing the storyline a little: John has already come to live with Sherlock, and is working at the time this case begins. I love this particular case, and I wanted to have him already incorporated into the story by the time it starts. So, Thorn is coming to stay at Baker Street… How do you feel about this? Please comment, review, critique, hate, love, continue reading, etc. Thank you: **

**Ibelieveinguardianangels**

**Until next time, **

**-TheArtist59**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters, from the BBC Television Series, ****_Sherlock, _****apart from Thorn and Cordelia Rivers, who are of my own invention. **

**Chapter Five: Reunited **

It was eight thirty on Monday morning. Sherlock had fallen asleep in his usual chair: half of his lean, arching body was stretched neatly over its scratchy surface while his long legs were tipped to the littered carpet. He rapidly awoke to the shrill whistle of the ready teapot on the stove. Grey wisps of smoke drifted into the crisp air: rain flooded the lone red flower Mrs. Hudson had insisted on: "_It gives the room some color," _she had explained. John was carefully pouring the tea into striped mugs and the detective caught a strong whiff of the fragrant brew as he rose, wandering over to the dusty mirror. John came over with a scone or two on a deep blue dish while Sherlock half-heartedly tried to tame the beast of brown curls looped over his pale forehead. "So, that girl, Thorn. She's coming today…" John began awkwardly, sinking gratefully into his favorite armchair. The patriotic Union Jack pillow was hidden behind the folds of his soft grey sweater. "Yes. I told you last night. Why must you always state the obvious, John?" Sherlock smoothed down the front of his violet shirt casually, but his silver eyes shone with unmistakable excitement…

Thorn was only taking a small black knapsack with her. She favored it because it housed a multitude of hidden pockets and inconspicuous alcoves. Late spring clothing filled the hollow innards of the bag, along with the bare essentials, of course. But tucked away under a crimson scarf was her oldest and most faithful sketchbook: she leafed through the thick pages, her thumb pausing on a comic of her cat trying to stalk his prey and failing miserably. She laughed quietly at the feline's clumsiness in the fourth panel. Thorn closed the book and hid it beneath the garments again. Cordelia already scolded her for staining the rug with ink from the pen…

_"__Thorn Cry Rivers!" _Cordelia's stern voice rasped from the staircase. _"Are you ready, yet? I'm expected earlier than I thought. I'll be late!" _The elder Rivers brushed her coveted brown waves out of her anxious eyes and stroked Lucifer's flaming red fur before the feline slinked away, inspecting a mouse hole with his wet pink nose. "I'm coming, Delia! Half a minute! I woke up late!" Thorn's soft voice floated through the cracked ceiling. She inspected herself in the mirror: a light blue cotton dress, she usually wore to the beach. Hair black, like her acrylic paint, pinned into a neat bun. Her old ballet flats from when she used to dance. The locket she always wore slipped beneath her collar. The small silver locket had been her mother's: inside, her parents smiled shyly back at her. Mother had hair the color of dark chocolate, grey eyes, sharp cheekbones. Father had deep black hair, and was half-Asian: oddly, mischievous green eyes peeked beneath a dusting of bangs. _"Thorn!" _Delia's voice had an edge to it, which meant that Thorn had approximately two minutes and fifty seven seconds before her sister barged into bedroom. Sighing, the young girl touched the locket for good luck and shouldered her burden before dancing down the stairs, light as a bird's feather.

Sherlock and John had a heck of a time hiding everything from sight that was either toxic, life-threatening, or partially on fire. Experiments were covered with sheets, matches tossed in drawers, light bulbs changed, a collection of rodents disbanded, a few deadly poisons locked away. "This may come as a shock to you, Sherlock, but when most people clean their houses, they don't have to worry about little kids finding arsenic in their cupboard," John huffed, concealing a saber beneath the kitchen sink. Sherlock pitched an unlit torch into a cramped closet. "Yes, well, I'm not _most people,_" he sniffed superiorly. "And she's hardly a 'little kid,' as you so delicately put it." The detective tested that the gas jet wasn't live before eventually throwing himself down on the sofa. John came to join him. "I wonder what she'll be like," he mused. "Do you think she'll have changed at all?" John shrugged, returning to his wrinkled newspaper and casually toeing a razorblade with his foot, slipping it under the couch and out of sight. "I'm hardly the detective around here," he murmured, focused on the morning headlines. "We'll just have to wait and see."

Thorn traced a finger over the rain patterns on the taxi window: a thunderstorm had begun since they left and forks of lightning streaked the sky with dry fingers. "You have everything, Thorn?" Cordelia's gentle voice wondered. "Clothes, my phone number, a sweater?" Thorn nodded, still drawing invisible flowers on the glass windowpane. "Please, call me anytime. For _anything._ I will return on Friday. Maybe we'll take a trip down to the beach, this weekend. I'd like to dip my toes in the water again." The pair of them used to go to the seaside quite often- a remote little cove called Musselwick Sands, in Pembrokeshire, with soft golden sand and sunlight. Cordelia would rent a beat-up car from a little-known company, and they would drive for four and a half hours out of London. Thorn would paint a landscape until the paints melted in the scalding heat and Cordelia would swim with long, practiced strokes, cleaving through the water like fire through ice. They would lick strawberry sorbet from their fingers while perched on the rocks, a cold treat beneath the blinding glare. It was their favorite place to go- a deserted strip of sand where the tide drew in a deep breath before sending white wakes to cover the sandbars: a place without city crowds, the only noise the lulling of the seaside…

"We're here, Thorn," Cordelia called quietly, shaking her sister's shoulder. Thorn had dozed off and was now roused by the older Rivers, who was brushing her light brown wisps away from her pink-tinted cheeks. Asking the driver to wait, Cordelia urged her out of the vehicle, her starched white blouse snowy against the dark, stormy sky. "221B Baker Street," she remarked, hurrying the girl to the door. The rain had paused for a moment: a whisper, a breath, in the torrent of water which had been shedding silver sheet of drops a few minutes before. "Here's the knocker- how funny, it's at a slight angle…" Thorn laughed. "It's only funny to _you_, Delia. You're OCD. Everything has to be exactly right, as straight as a pin." Cordelia mock-hit her. "It's not my fault I like to be organized. I've always heard Mother was obsessed with neatness too- unlike _someone _I know…" she glanced down playfully at Thorn, who just rolled her eyes and grasped the knocker in her hand, rapping it against the rain-slicked, black door. There was a light pair of footsteps, and then a loud _crack _as the door suddenly flew open. Sherlock Holmes stood in the foyer, his clear eyes inspecting the young girl in front of him. His dark curls glistened with water-_He just showered, _Thorn realized- his collared shirt, a deep plumb, was ironed, and his long arms were dropped at his sides. Cordelia smiled tentatively up at him. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," she began cordially. "How are you? It's been a while… Three months, now?"

"Four." The consulting detective scanned the elder Rivers. "You haven't changed a bit," he commented quietly. "Except that you've taken on three more charges, have recently scrubbed your hardwood floors, and let the cat loose in your apartment…" he shrugged, pale eyes glinting. Cordelia, unfazed, graced him with a small nod. "Correct, as always, Mr. Holmes," she answered. "Now, I'm sorry to have to go so soon, but-" Sherlock interrupted her. "But you'll be late for the train to South Devon. Very well, Ms. Rivers. You mustn't disappoint your employer. Why don't you come upstairs, Thorn? It'll be raining again, soon, if the humidity is any indication." There was a long pause. Thorn looked up at her sister, who seemed a bit taken aback. After a moment of awkwardness, though, she quickly embraced Thorn. Swiftly stroking her cheek, she said, "Don't cause any trouble. I'll see you on Friday, dear. We'll go to the beach." But seeing Thorn's reluctant expression, and realizing how difficult it was for the two of them to part, she added, "Don't keep Mr. Holmes waiting. Go on." She watched from outside as the lithe girl glided to the staircase where Sherlock was silently watching the exchange. He began to lead the way, winding up the steps with the caution of a tiger. Just before the door closed, Cordelia called, "I love you, Thorn! Don't forget!" There was a snippet of her oval face and perplexed, caring eyes before the door obstructed her from sight.

Following Sherlock up the creaking wooden staircase, the graceful detective lead Thorn to an open door. Inside, there was an un-patterned sofa propped stoically near a wall, and a wide, recently polished mirror attached to the pale red and lion-gold wallpaper. Two careworn armchairs were arranged on the rich burgundy and soft grey carpet, and a fire crackled, the scarlet ribbons of flames illuminating a far wall. Pictures, letters, foreign stamps, documents, and even the photograph she sent him all those months ago were tacked or taped into a colorful collage. The faint scent of hot tea perfumed the air. Windows still strung with burned out Christmas lights were crying tears of cold rain. A blood red blossom sprouted in the corner of the sill. "Hello, then," Sherlock started awkwardly. "Four months apart, and now here you are. You've grown a few inches." Thorn's lips upturned in a slight smile. "Yes, well. Children tend to grow. How have your cases been going?" She pointed an ice-white foot: Sherlock soaked in her appearance. The harsh, black and blue bruises had faded entirely, and her hair was sleek and black like a dark seal's. It was twisted up, and a cotton dress floated daintily around her slight waist like a flower. She _had_ grown, but retained the nimble dancer's body, long limbs and pale skin and brown eyes. "Fine," Sherlock answered her after a while. "The cases have been fine. And how about you? No more bruises, I see." The girl winced almost imperceptibly when he mentioned her injuries. She soon masked the brief flicker of pain in her eyes. "You're the detective. You can read me very well without consulting me first. Go on," she urged him. "Deduce me." Sherlock walked a little closer to her, his silver irises x-raying her small frame.

"More art, I see. The calluses are pronounced on your fingers," he began in his rich baritone. "You can play the piano now; there are wrinkles on your inner palms. You went to the library three days ago- there's the ink stamp on the side of your hand- you know, the rubber stamps people press onto the inner covers of their books, the ones with the dates when they're supposed to return them? It's faded, slightly, so it couldn't be from today… What else? Ah, yes: You've cut yourself on something. Let me see your arm." He reached out and gently took her elbow, running a finger over the deep scratch. "Not self-inflicted obviously. The way the wound is shaped and the direction the skin is sliced through indicates you caught it on something. But what?" he mused, releasing her arm. "A picture frame," Thorn answered, inspecting the irritated red lines. "I picked it up and then Lucifer thought he smelled something- tried to catch a piece of prey, I'd imagine. He's a poor hunter, and he skidded under my feet just as I was lifting it. I tripped and the frame shattered on the floor. A piece of glass slashed my arm. It will heal soon, though," she added. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. "Do me," he suddenly ordered. Thorn cocked her head to the side, a coil of hair falling into her eyes. "Do you? You mean, deduce you?" she asked. The detective nodded, sinking into a chair and gazing at her with undisguised interest. Thorn cleared her throat.

"You've been cleaning the house- you showered before you greeted me and Delia, but there is dust caught under your fingernails. Your shoes are unlaced, suggesting you had bare feet before I came. When you heard the doorbell you slipped into them quickly, not bothering to tie them. Then there are the calluses on _your_ hands. You play something with a bow then- either a cello, a viola, or a violin, or another instrument of the sort. Though, judging by the places the calluses are positioned, I would guess violin. You haven't slept in two days, but you don't depend on sleep the same way others do. However, the dark circles and slightly impeded reaction time betray your lack of rest. You've also been working with acid, likely for an experiment. The wood near the door is eroded, eaten away by the chemicals. You sprinkled baking soda over them in order to neutralize it." She smiled shyly at the impressed expression staining Sherlock's features. "Very good," he finally complimented her. "Lucky guess with the violin, though." He grinned crookedly at her while she paced the short length between the sofa and the locked front door. "A shot in the dark," she murmured. Then she laughed, out of the blue. "You missed one," she began, stooping down to unearth a white, circular thing. The detective pricked his ears, straining to see what she had picked up from the floor. She held his prized skull to the light: in a last-ditch attempt to tidy the flat, Sherlock had thrown his skull near the coatrack. She held it out to him. "You clearly cleaned the place up for me- but it's not necessary. A half-hearted attempt on your part, Mr. Holmes," she cackled. "But I'm not one for neatness myself. Delia is the OCD one. She's forever complaining about my messes. But I'm an _artist_," she added dramatically. "Chaos is a part of life." He grinned at her, taking the skull and positioning it on the rough mantelpiece. "Did you tell her that?" he wondered aloud. Thorn nodded. "She wasn't too impressed. She thinks chaos is ridiculous, and I should put more effort into cleaning up." The girl shrugged. "But I try to tune out her lectures." The pair smiled at each other for a moment more before John entered the room, carrying delicate teacups. "Oh, hello Thorn," he greeted her warmly. "I didn't realize you were here yet. Have a seat, please. I'm sure Sherlock hasn't offered." At this he shot a disapproving look at his friend. "Here, you've been outside: have some tea." The three of them talked idly for a while, spending the rest of the day catching up, listening to Sherlock rant about the lack of cases, moaning endlessly about the incompetence of Scotland Yard. The army doctor recounted a few war stories, and a comical one about the dog he had when he was a boy. _And then he fell right through the ice!_ He had emphasized. The disbelieving look on Sherlock's face made Thorn and John break into peals of laughter. Sherlock offered a hint of a smile as he listened to her laughter: he was glad to hear that music again.

Finally, John consulted his tarnished silver wristwatch. "It's almost eleven," he commented theatrically. "_Eleven!_ You're what, eight years old?" he stared into the reproachful chocolate eyes of the young Rivers. "Almost nine," she grumbled. He ignored her. "You should have been in bed _hours_ ago. What will your sister say?" Thorn shrugged, her entire body responding to the motion. "Delia? She doesn't have know. I'm used to late nights at home: usually finishing a painting or an experiment, or something of the sort." John opened his mouth as if to argue, but then thought better of it. "Nevermind. Off to bed with you. I'll take you upstairs, show you to your room." He picked up her knapsack wordlessly and began to climb up the stairs, Thorn at his heels. Before she disappeared she glanced over her shoulder at the consulting detective, who was watching her with mild curiosity. "Goodnight, Sherlock," she whispered, before delicately ascending the staircase. Sherlock smiled gently at her. "Goodnight, Thorn," he replied, offering her a small wave. His fingers looked like white moths in the half-light. "Sleep well."

...

**_Crouched down on the floor near the window of an office building, Sir Jeffery, the man who recently spoke to his secretary, Helen, via cell phone, shakes with fear. He unscrews the lid of a little glass bottle, containing three large capsules. He gazes ahead, terrified, as he selects a pill and slips it into his mouth. Shivering on the floor and convulsing, in apparent agony, he suddenly stills, his dead body growing cold on the floor. _**

_**At a Police Press Conference, Sir Jeffry's wife, Margaret Patterson, is sitting near a table, making a statement into one of the many microphones of the press. **_

Margaret Patterson: **_tearing up_** _My husband was a happy man who lived life to the full. He loved his family and his work- and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him__**. Helen, the secretary, struggles to control her emotions as she listens to the dead man's wife speak. Clearly in love, though, she allows a few tears to escape, dripping down her cheeks. **_

****_To Be Continued…_

**A/N: Please forgive the long wait, I've been very busy with gymnastics recently. To make up for it, this is a longer chapter. Hopefully the next update will be up soon. If you've been reading this, thank you! It means so much to me that people actually read this. I love to write, and this is an excellent way to receive feedback. So please review! (Although this is my first fanfiction, I don't expect anyone to be gentle in their criticisms. Please, critique! Love it, hate it, write a petition to ban me from writing forever. ****J****) Thanks, and read on! An especial thank you to:**

**FamousYetUnknown **

**Ibelieveinguardianangels**

**Until next time, **

**-TheArtist59**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Here's a bit of fluff, and a snippet of crime… Enjoy… **

**Chapter 6: Nightmare **

John Watson awoke to a bone-chilling scream. It was dark in the flat; at two in the morning the crescent moon bleached his bedroom, an eerie ember of white on the black carpet. A few weak stars managed to appear despite the radiating city lights, and the window was caked in frost from where the rain had frozen. Jolting into consciousness, the army doctor cast off the pale green duvet and slipped on his navy robe, before darting like a fish to the deserted hallway. He crept through the kitchen, alert, and his heart beat at a rabbit's pace. Nobody was in the living room; the detective's reddish violin was hidden in a shadowed corner, and a copy of _Expectations _was opened, its dog-eared pages fluttering in the crisp breeze. Thunder rumbled ravenously outside the frigid window, and John shivered before hurrying up the rickety staircase to the guestroom. He frowned at the door; it was slightly ajar, as though someone had already crept into the room. The doctor slowly opened it, stealing into the bleak interior. Moonlight struck through the bare windows and illuminated the most unlikely thing John could imagine.

Thorn was balled up like a spool of thread, her thin white dress which served as a nightgown soaked in sweat. Her hair spilled across her shoulders, long and a curving black arch across her smooth white skin. Sherlock was perched on the mattress next to her, shaking her gently awake. Mahogany eyes shot open, and the young girl rocketed upright, looking frantically around her. Sherlock touched her arm, and she recoiled, still entranced with her dream. "Sherlock?" she croaked, her voice rasping. "What-where?-Oh…" she appeared to realize where she was, noticing John. "I'm sorry," she breathed, bringing a hand to rest on her forehead. "I had a nightmare… I- I-"

"We know," the detective cut her off in such a soft voice it made John's heart twinge. "But it's not real. You're safe." He reached out and tentatively stroked her loose hair which twisted rebelliously around her shoulders. "Do you want to talk about it?" the doctor came to sit on the edge of the bed. "No, it's fine… it was silly, really. Just the usual. It's nothing I can't handle," her voice meant to calm the two men, but it sounded an awful lot like she was trying to convince herself of her own security. "Does this happen often?" John asked, his brow wrinkling with concern. Sherlock stroked her flushed cheek absently, twisting a lock of her hair with his fingers. "I'm sort of an insomniac," she admitted finally, pulling her knees to her chest. "The nightmares are more frequent than I care to discuss." She smiled sadly at him, trying to steady her breathing. "You're safe," the detective reassured her again. "But you should go back to sleep, now. We don't want your sister hurling abuse at us when she fetches you," he teased. Thorn laughed quietly at the image, but the sound was warped. "Maybe if I stayed…?" Sherlock's voice was shy. Cautious. Thorn gazed up at him incredulously. "Are you serious?" she scoffed, pulling back. "Go on, I'll be fine. I've dealt with this before." Sherlock rolled his eyes before scooping her up, laying her down on the cold sheets and fixing the pillow beneath her. "Go back to bed, John," he ordered. "I'll take care of her." He smiled slightly at the hesitant look on his flat mate's face. "What? I'm not going to slit her throat while you're gone," he jested, glancing down at the girl watching him with moonstruck eyes, which seemed to swallow him whole. John shook his head but grazed his fingers over Thorn's bony shoulder before wishing her goodnight. Then he left, his death-black shadow dancing on the wall. When he was gone, the detective placed a hand on his charge's collarbone. "You're cold," he murmured, slipping out of the bed. The female watched as he padded, elk-like, to the closet. Wrenching the door open, he pulled out a thick grey afghan and prowled over to her again. He lifted her back and eased the blanket around her shaking torso, covering her neck and arms. Then he pulled the soft white fleece of the original blanket to her slim waist. He lay next to her, letting her bury her head in the crook of his neck, chest against chest, heart against heart. He rubbed circles onto her back as she drifted off…

...

**_Two adolescent boys dash down a dark street in the drenching rain. Gary, one of the boys, is struggling to keep his umbrella open in the wind, while Jimmy, his friend, hides from the weather in his collar. An available taxi flits by, and Jimmy leaps into the air, waving for the taxi to stop. _**

Jimmy: Yes, yes, taxi, yes! **_Although he whistles to the taxi it drives away. Groaning, he begins to sprint in the direction the pair just came from. He glances over his shoulder at Gary as he runs. _**

****Jimmy: I'll be back in two minutes, mate.

Gary: What?

Jimmy: Two minutes, alright? **_He hurries away. After a while, Gary checks his watch, wondering why his friend is taking so long. Sighing, he takes off, in pursuit of Jimmy. Meanwhile, Jimmy is holed up in a sports centre, crying, while unscrewing a small glass jar with three capsules inside. Sobbing, his hands shake. Perched on a window ledge, he prepares to remove a pill…_**

****John Watson woke the next morning with a crick in his neck. Padding into the kitchen, he stirred a cup of tea with two sugars, before sitting at the table, brandishing the day's newspaper. Reading the headline aloud, he sighed. "Boy, 18, kills himself inside sports centre." Shaking his head sadly, the doctor sipped his beverage, letting it scald his throat. "Another suicide, hmm. Poor kid. I feel sorry for his parents…"

_To Be Continued… _

**This is a quick update. I know, I know. I'm awful at fluff. (Not much experience with it, but apparently it's in high demand... ) I know it's short. As I've mentioned before, I'm completely changing the timeline for "A Study in Pink." I've worked it out, but all of the suicides are going to be in quick succession, in order to accommodate Thorn's visit… Who knows? Maybe she'll stay a little longer than expected. With John already solving crimes with Sherlock, I can cut out all the bits of introduction, so it won't be as long. Please review, critique, and read on! If you're new, by all means, give me your worst. I'm not looking for gentleness: it's the criticism that makes for a good story. Thanks for reading, expect an update fairly soon, although gymnastics might conflict with the timeline. Thank you: **

**Major-fangirl-in-here17**

**Rose800**

**Alexma**

**Mike raven**

**Kurai Yukichan **

**And all readers besides. Your time means the word. Read on! **

**Until next time, **

**-TheArtist59**


	7. Chapter 7: Four

**Chapter Seven: Four **

**_At a venue, a party is in session. A poster is plastered to a wall with a photograph of the guest of honor: "Your local MP, Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport." One of Beth's assistants retreats from the ear-splitting music emitting from the main room, and joins another assistant, a man loitering near the bar. His expression is frustrated as he sees her walking towards him. _**

******Assistant One: Is she ****_still _****dancing?**

**Assistant Two: Yeah, if you call it that. **

**Assistant One: Did you get the car keys off her? **

**Assistant Two: ****_flashing a pair of keys for him to see _****Got 'em out of her bag. **

**_Grinning triumphantly, the male assistant cranes his neck, searching the room with the party in it. _**

******Assistant One: Where is she? **

**_Beth, having left the venue, is rifling through her handbag, searching for her missing car keys. Groaning, she glances around her… _**

**…**

**_Sometime later, Beth is in hysterics, crying and shaking in a Portacabin. Sobbing, she reaches for the glass jar which houses three large capsules… _**

**…**

Detective Inspector Lestrade had had an arduous day at the station: strong coffee had been sent for, papers sifted through, evidence scrutinized, interviews condoned… And now here he was at the press conference. Cameras flashed with severity, silver scopes of white light blinding him. Reporters jabbed microphones in his direction, black pens poised, and red ink already staining yellow notebooks. "I hate these things," he complained quietly to Sergeant Donovan. "Bloody awful, they are." Casting a sympathetic eye towards her employer, the dark-skinned woman began the interrogation. "The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffery Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." Leaning forward as though a tropical bird, poised for flight, a reporter demanded, "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" Feeling suffocated by the developing photographs and claustrophobic from the blur of alarmingly dressed people, Lestrade ran a hand through his silvering hair. "Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shone any prior indication of-"

"But you can't have serial suicides," another reporter interjected with a suspicious eye, gleaming with accusation. Lestrade massaged his temples. "Well apparently you _can._"

"These three people: there's nothing that links them?"

"There's no link been found _yet, _but we're looking for it. There has to _be _one." Instantly a vibration, like crickets humming, echoed through the room. Blackberries and cells were whipped out and read with ravenous eyes. _Wrong! _Was typed in neat black letters as it lit up the illuminated glass screens. "If you've all got texts, please ignore them." Sally Donovan drew in a breath like a hiss of air in the cold weather. A confused reporter declared, "Just says 'Wrong."

"Yeah, well, ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." The sergeant twirled a lock of dark brown curls around a bony finger. "But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" the reporter wondered above the ruckus of shifting bodies and crossing legs. "As I say, these… these suicides are _clearly _linked. Um, it's an… it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating." Another vibration swelled like a breaking wave through the chattering crowd. "Says 'Wrong' again." Lestrade glanced despairingly at Donovan as he felt his headache increase by twofold. "One more question," she announced, pitying her employer. "Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" A woman tipped her scrawny form towards Lestrade's cluttered desk as if the answer was written on a piece of paper. "I… I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The um, the poison was _clearly _self-administered," he stammered. "Yes but if they _are _murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" The reporter looked superior at her winning question: _Serial Killer on the Loose: Five Tips to Keep Yourself out of Harm's Way. _That was the article header she dreamed about: she could almost trace the carefully phrased sentences of the future columns in her head. But Lestrade straightened his starched white cuffs and snapped, "Well, don't commit suicide." Shocked, the reporter laid her pen down on her pad. Donovan muttered, "Daily Mail," before she cupped her hand over her mouth and gazed at the sea of people laid before them, each one twitching like mad, like bread rising. "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." The DI sighed and worked his hand through his receding hairline, wrinkles pruning beneath his dull blue eyes. Another text seeped through the Conference Hall. _Wrong! _It haunted.

Exhausted, Lestrade rose from his chair and elbowed his way out of the corner. "Thank you," he finished, before glancing at his mobile. A message danced across the blinding display screen.

_You know where to find me. _

_-SH _

"You've _got _stop him doing that," Sally complained as the pair trekked through the cramped offices of Scotland Yard. "He's making us look like idiots." Lestrade arched a greying eyebrow.

"Well, if you can tell me _how _he does it, I'll stop him."

**... **

Thorn stretched as she opened her dark brown eyes which were still seeking dreams. Icy light streamed through the unshaded wood window: she leapt out of the warm bed, finding half of the creased sheets cold where Sherlock had abandoned them long ago. She peered outside: mist hung across the horizon and a drearily purple fog smoked through the air. A speckled pigeon fluttered towards the sill: it inspected her, its eye a scarlet bead before whisking into the chilled morning, its black-striped body and dappled tail feathers disappearing in the pearl grey sky. The girl wandered over to her plain black bag and unearthed a deep purple sweater, the sleeves long and concealing. She dressed swiftly with thick grey socks and a thin pair of leggings. She combed the black river of hair into a ballerina bun, cupping it briefly and smoothing down her shirt before tucking her mother's old locket beneath the low collar. Pirouetting down the rickety staircase, she knocked tentatively on the closed door leading to the remainder of the flat. "Come in!" A soft, motherly voice drifted like music across the hallway. Timidly, she slipped through the entrance to the living room where a woman was dusting a bookshelf lightly. "Hello, dear. You must be Thorn. Sherlock mentioned that he was having a young guest staying with him. I'm Mrs. Hudson. Delighted to meet you." She stood on pale legs with shaking ankles and stepped over to Thorn, gripping her hand. "The pleasure is mine," the girl replied cordially, craning her neck to search for the detective. "You're the landlady, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. Well, I'm_ supposed _to be. As you can see, I'm a bit of a housekeeper for the boys." The elderly lady waved the lilac colored duster in the air with a despairing expression inked across her face. "I'm sure it's a handful to take care of the apartment single-handedly," Thorn sympathized carefully. Mrs. Hudson fluffed her greying blond bun absently before straightening the colorful books on a coffee table. "Nevermind, my dear," she chirped good-naturedly. "I'm quite used to it at this point. And with a _child_ in the house, well… We don't want you swallowing anything deadly while you're here. I'm sure your mother would have a fit, wouldn't she? Are your parents the strict type?" Thorn winced very slightly. "Well actually, my parents are both dead. My older sister, Cordelia, looks after me." She already missed the tawny-haired beauty and her gentle touches. "Oh that's too bad, dear," the landlady clucked her tongue. "But at least you have a caring sister." There was a sudden waft of smoke floating through the room. Mrs. Hudson startled before dashing to the staircase. "I forgot the cookies! They're overdone, I left them in the oven!" The woman cried before vanishing downstairs. Thorn smiled slightly before John wandered into the room, skimming a crumpled newspaper with lethargic eyes. "Oh, good morning, Thorn," he greeted her warmly. "You're an early riser. It's only six thirty. Would you like some breakfast?" Shaking her head and politely declining she roamed over to the deep orange violin near the window. "Good morning Thorn," a deep voice rumbled sincerely. "How did you sleep? No monsters under the bed?" A delicate blush crept up on the girl's face as Sherlock graced her with a rare grin. "Learning to play the violin, then?" he nodded in the direction of his treasured instrument. "Oh no," Thorn protested quickly, blushing deeper. "I was simply admiring it." He reached out and picked up the tuned violin from a dark cherry chair. "It makes a very beautiful noise," he commented running a nimble finger over the wires. He paused, suddenly uncertain. "Would you like to hear it?"

…

The music was sweet like honey running over rocks or like dark waterfalls ending in a blue pit of water and his fingers swayed over the notes as she listened to the sound crash around her. It was like opening a music box, with the perfect chimes and the notes drowned in harmony. She wished it would never end.

….

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." The detective had performed for three blissful hours before he laid the instrument to rest, finding Thorn gazing at him with doe-eyes. Since then he had been scanning articles and shooting the wall, complaining of constant boredom. Fortunately, that was about to end…

"What did you say, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked disinterestedly. "I _said_, these suicides, they seem right up your alley. There have been three already." The old woman brushed a stray curl away from her withered cheek.

"Four." Outside a police car parked and the sirens whizzed in a mesh of bright ruby and sapphire hues before flickering off. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time." The consulting detective whirled on his foot with severity as the door burst open and a breathless Lestrade appeared, rosy from the crisp weather. "Where?" he fired off like a bullet buried in a wall, silver eyes flashing like burning moons. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The DI rubbed a hand over his square jaw.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." Lestrade glanced sharply at the group of people, his blue stones of eyes lit with fleeting curiosity as he noticed the young girl concealed by the shadows; then he flitted down the staircase like a sparrow being hunted.

Sherlock danced madly and he lifted his arms before clapping them together in gratefulness. Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" he flutterd like a restless moth across the room.

"Get your coat," he ordered Thorn, whose face was washed with innocent surprise. "I may need your astute observational skills on the field." He wrapped his pale blue scarf around his chin and pulled his Belstaff over his bony shoulders as she gathered her sleek silver raincoat and shrugged into it without a word and felt the silk lining of the pockets brush beneath her fingertips. She noticed a gradient of emotions pass over John's face: _shock… outrage… anger… fear? _Why was he afraid?

"Sherlock! I'm _not _letting you take an eight-year-old girl to a bloody crime scene!"

"She'll be fine. It'll be swarming with police."

"Wha- No, Sherlock. I'm putting my foot down. There will probably be enough blood and gore to scare her for life. We don't need you tugging a year two girl along while you solve serial killings!"

"Oh please. She's hardly a child."

"According to her birth certificate, she is. What would Cordelia say?"

"Cordelia? Her _sister? _She's nowhere near here. No need for her to find out."

"Sherlock, grow up for once. This isn't a childhood prank where you sneak out a window against a parent's permission!"

"We're not _sneaking _we're being discreet. Stop worrying. She's coming whether you like it or not."

"No."

"Have some compassion for once."

"_Me? I'm _the one trying to protect her from emotional harm!"

"John. Every second we waste, more people are at risk of dying. The murderer is still on the streets. If there's a chance that she can help save lives and we can catch him quicker because of her abilities, then I have no choice but to bring her along. Stop being such a hero. I don't have time for this."

There was a long pause as the drops of John's blue irises softened and he fixed his jumper, which was brown and white like a rabbit's hide. "Alright. I'm brining my gun though," he finally murmured. The cold detective's delicate features were struck with the match of excitement. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he replied quietly. He suddenly wheeled around on a light foot and addressed his landlady who was running a rough index finger over her pale pink lips. "Mrs. Hudson, We'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do." Sherlock bounded out the door with the trio hot on his black-clad heels. "You're really leaving then?" Mrs. Hudson cried anxiously from the hallway with the peeling wallpaper. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun _going on!" Clasping her small shoulders, he kissed her hastily on the cheek before tightening his scarf and wrenching open the front door. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." The elderly woman's expression was stern, but a hint of a smile betrayed her approval. "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

**A/N: So, Thorn is going to the crime scene! I wonder how that will turn out… This is a little longer than usual because of the delay: apologies, I have a lot going on right now. What do you think? Everything is falling in place now…. Please, critique, and REVIEW! Your comment have me grinning like an idiot. Thank you: **

**Duskodair**

**Mione Boleyn**

**Ibelieveinguardianangels**

**SuperWhoLockgirl1222**

**Utopia Avius**

**Sachan22**

**Until next time, **

**-TheArtist59**


	8. Chapter 8: Crimes Laced in Pink

**Chapter Eight: Crimes Laced in Pink **

It was dark when they reached the crime scene; bright yellow bands of caution tape crisscrossed the exterior of the faded wooden house and sirens blared into the night. John and Sherlock immediately ducked under the tape line with Thorn hovering cautiously behind them. Of course, it wouldn't be too easy to just slip into the scene undetected… Sally Donovan had to arrive. She circled like a vulture, dark hair for feathers, and landed right in the younger's Holmes's path. Big mistake.

"Hello, Freak." The sergeant jeered, tightening her thick coat around her delicate frame. Sherlock brushed it off with a flick of his icy eyes. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?" the young woman demanded; the fierce brown of her irises hunted his smooth, pale face. "I was invited," he replied as he scanned her wind-swept hair as it curled in the frigid chill whisking past the crowded house.

"_Why?_" She sneered again.

"I think he wants me to take a look," he responded in a comical voice.

"Well, you know what _I _think, don't you?" Her voice rasped, tone filled with a streak of withering fire as the detective lifted the broad band of saffron tape and ducked underneath, Thorn tiptoeing on her skeletal feet while John thudded inside less gracefully. "I even know you didn't make it home last night," Sherlock continued as he rewrapped his pale blue scarf around his swan-like neck. "I don't…" her words caught in her throat as she noticed the young girl. "Er… who's this?" Donovan inspected her from head to toe. "My name is Thorn," she replied, extending a fair white hand. "Sally, I presume?" the sergeant rudely swatted her hand away with a look of disgust etched into her intruding features. Out of the blue, a sandy-haired man prowled over to the pair of females, wrinkling his nose. "Who's this? And what on _earth _is she doing at a crime scene?" he wondered aloud. Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh, breath smoking into the night like a grey dragon. "I'll say it again." Thorn's voice had a dangerous edge to it, her eyes dark as a black watercolor as she gazed at the investigators. "My name is Thorn. I'm here with Sherlock to try my hand at solving a murder. Is that going to be a problem?"

Sally curled her lip like a hound, teeth glinting yellow in the streetlight. "Yes it is a _problem,_" she insisted, throwing a desperate glance at Anderson. "There are no _children _allowed. I don't know why the freak brought you here. We don't have any coloring books around." Anderson cracked a cruel grin at her jibe. "Is you wife away for long?" Thorn turned to the man on forensics. He visibly blanched, white staining his cheeks. "Don't pretend you worked that out, you insolent girl. Somebody told you that," he insisted.

"Your deodorant told me that." The young child sniffed the air delicately. Anderson growled, a guttural, primal noise. "My deodorant?" Thorn nodded. "It's for men."

"Well of course it's for men,_ I'm _wearing it!" Anderson protested, blearily angry.

"So is Sergeant Donovan." Thorn cocked her head to the side, examining the woman's wrinkled tights and skinned knees. "And I think it just vaporized," she added, noting the livid expression on both faces. "Now look: whatever you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything." Thorn widened her unwavering cocoa eyes, feigning innocence. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." She swept her long coat around her and smoothed her dark ringlets, formed by the harsh wind, before edging nimbly to the taped-off house. Sherlock and John hurried after her. As they ascended the short steps to the faded, creaking door, John touched her shoulder lightly. "That was… phenomenal," he complimented, awe lighting his eyes like a warm beacon. She felt a dusky blush creep onto her cheeks at his praise. Sherlock said nothing, but there was a rare twinkle in his eyes as he nodded briefly in approval. Thorn smiled slightly before gripping the tarnished silver of the doorknob and letting herself inside.

….

There were signs of leakage on the faded walls, the heat hissing and the floorboards cracked. Eroded pipes and the musk of drying wood permeated the room. In the center, a woman lay dead. She wore an ostentatious pink overcoat, a pair of uncomfortable pink high heels, and a dirtied wedding ring. Auburn hair was splayed out like a fan. Hands pinned on either side of her limp head. "I can give you two minutes," Lestrade announced from the door. "I'm bending the rules by letting the girl in anyways." Sherlock hummed quietly while his blue eyes roamed over the cold corpse. "May need longer."

Just above her hands, the floorboards were skinned in a series of hasty scars, inflicted by her damaged nails- the magenta polish was chipped away. The thin gashes spelled out _Rache. _Thorn's brain whirred as she mulled over the written word. _Rache. German. Noun. Revenge. _The observations drifted before her eyes like a book. "Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her," Lestrade continued in a heavy voice. Thorn's heart lurched; she remembered an old neighbor she knew, named Jennifer. Five years old. Yellow curls cascading down her shoulders. Curious blue eyes and always a red bow secured in her envied hair. Hit by a car three years ago.

"Thorn, come here," Sherlock barked coldly, snapping the girl away from her dark thoughts. The image of young Jenny faded, and she cautiously stepped over to the dead woman. Sherlock handed her a pocket magnifying glass before urging her forward. "As of now, I'm testing you. I'd like to know what you can gather." He pushed her over to the corpse with unforgiving force, and her thick eyelashes batted anxiously. "Let's see how impressive you _really _are."

…..

_Rache. German. Noun. _Thorn shook her head, erasing the thought. _Rachel. _She ran a little hand down the stiff spine of the bright pink coat. _Wet. _She dipped a hand into Jennifer's pocket and unearthed a compact umbrella. _Dry. _She replaced the umbrella, favoring the collar of the coat instead; she rubbed the texture between her slender white fingers. _Wet. _Then she inspected the intricate golden bracelet on her left wrist. _Clean. _Earring. _Clean._ Necklace. _Clean. _Wedding ring. _Dirty. _Engagement Ring. _Dirty. _Text printed out a message in front of her vision: _married. Unhappily married. Unhappily married 10 + years. _Thorn carefully removed the wedding band and revolved it, peering from every angle. Outside of ring. _Dirty. _Inside of ring. _Clean. _A deduction strung itself across her eyes. _Regularly removed. _Final Conclusion: _**Serial Adulterer. **_

…**..**

Lestrade cleared his throat, tearing Thorn away from being drenched in the river of her thoughts for any longer. "Got anything?" he prompted in a desperate tone of voice. Thorn nodded shyly before glancing at the detective, who nodded briskly. "Not much," she admitted in a quiet voice. Before she could continue, however, the door flew open, whining on its rusted hinges. Anderson stood in the doorway, his lanky frame stretched cat-like over the threshold. "She's German. '_Rache.' _It's German for 'revenge.' She could be trying to tell us something…" Sherlock immediately darted over before calling sarcastically: "Yes, thank you for your imput." He unforgivingly slammed the door in his shocked face while the bolts hissed and moaned in protest. "So she's German?" Lestrade pressed, silver hair glinting in the stark lighting. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night… before returning home." Thorn explained. Lestrade screwed his eyes into slits, forehead creased in concentration. "Where was she returning home to?" He asked the girl. Thorn thumbed her wrist lightly before pivoting on her heel to face the detective. "May I please borrow your phone?" She requested politely. He unquestioningly passed it to her, watching as she typed in his passcode. "I caught you unlocking it on the taxi ride here," she admitted sheepishly. "But here is what I was trying to tell you." She presented the illuminated screen to Lestrade. "Cardiff." She brandished the cell. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase," she elaborated. "Suitcase?" Lestrade's thin, greying eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"If you're just making this up-"

Thorn shook her head, pointing to Jennifer's hand. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant," John breathed. "Simply fantastic." The young girl looked at her small feet modestly. Lestrade folded his tanned arms across his chest. "Cardiff?" he demanded, earning a slight sigh from Sherlock. "It's obvious, isn't it?" he interjected.

"It's not obvious to me," the D.I. scowled, feeling the all-too familiar sting of being lost in the shadows of the sidelines, instead of basking in the coveted glory of the spotlight, where Sherlock thrived. "Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, _strong_ wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" he winked at Thorn. "Show him the phone- I assume you were pulling up the weather report?" Nodding, she flashed the screen in his direction a second time, and he noticed it was a display of England's weather Cardiff blinked in yellow beads from the background. "Cardiff. That's where."

Lestrade still didn't seem convinced. "Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" he wondered, arms tightening in a vice-like grip around his torso- faded blue cloth clung to his skin, highlighting his complexion in the emergency lights the crew had assembled previously. Thorn grazed a white hand over the mildew coating the cracked walls like rain. "Yes, where is it?" she murmured in a distant voice. "She must have had a phone or an organizer. Oh, and you should find out who Rachel is." Lestrade sighed lightly but his dark eyes were puzzled. "She was writing 'Rachel?'" At this, the detective snorted with superiority. "No, she was leaving an angry note in German! Of _course _she was writing Rachel. No other word it can be." He paused, flicking a piece of white lint from his black Belstaff. "Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" the D.I's forehead creased into folds, like a piece of origami paper. "How d'you know she had a suitcase?" Thorn pointed to the corpse, where the deceased woman's tights were speckled with black blots. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." John's jaws dropped comically, almost cartoon-esque as the eight-year-old terminated her deductions. Sherlock's blue eyes glistened with unmistakable pride as he wheeled around, facing Lestrade. "Now where is it, what have you done with it?" he demanded. The Inspector shook his head, silver hair striped with shadows. "There wasn't a case."

Deathly cold silence.

"Say that again." Sherlock's voice was slow, sweet, and pondering, but also dangerous; like a splash of cream with an undertone of poison.

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase," Lestrade repeated, bemusedly. The Consulting Detective bolted out of the careworn room, leaning his lanky body over the staircase and bellowing: "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" Lestrade, John and Thorn followed him to the landing; but the girl hung back before she came too close, lurking in the shadows, eyes like dying violets in the dusky light. "Sherlock, there was no case," the Scotland Yard detective protested in vain. Police officers glared from beneath polished black hats chinstraps dangling, at the commotion from above. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. And there are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them," he snubbed, descending the unstable wooden stairs. "Right, yeah, thanks!" Lestrade grouched. _"And?" _Sherlock shook his thick reddish brown mane loose from his skin and met the Inspector's weary gaze. "It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings- _serial _killings." Clearly delighted, he clasped his hands, slender from handling the violin bow, and smiled. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I _love _those. There's always something to look forward to." Lestrade arranged his features into an appropriate sternness. "Why are you saying that?" he pried.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." Sherlock fumed. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car," he mumbled in a detached voice. John cleared his throat, warm eyes clouded with thought. "She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." He earned himself an aggravated look from his flat-mate. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking…" he trailed off… Instantaneously, his eyes begin to shimmer with the fruitful stars of knowledge. "Oh." His voice curled into a bare, foggy whisper. _"Oh!" _the doctor was now sufficiently irritated. "Sherlock?" he prompted. Lestrade bent over the stair railing. "What is it, what?" The detective began to grin and dance slightly in place. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" John argued.

"Oh we're _done _waiting." Sherlock wound, spider-like down the stairs, reminding Thorn of a black widow, like the ones she used to witness her uncle squash dead with his thumb when they visited his farm. "Look at her, really _look! _Houston, we _have _a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" his enthralled voiced echoed up through the rickety shafts of the building, rising to the metal rafters rocking from the roof. "Of course, yeah- but what mistake?" Lestrade demanded, his irises flicking like scenes from a movie as it is switched from slide to slide. Sherlock, having vanished from sight, reappeared at the lowest level of the stairs. "_PINK!" _

**A/N: Here is the next chapter! I sincerely apologize for the lack of updates recently, but homework is insane! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I loved to write it. If you're new, please review, leave a comment, and continue reading! Your feedback means the moon and more to me. Please don't be shy to criticize- ALL helpful- and constructive- reviews are welcome. If you hate it, let your hate out on the review page! If you love it, let me know! I hope for another update in the near future. Thank you to all of my followers and those of you who decided to favorite my story! Thank you: **

** Egulcem **

**Read on! **

** Until next time, **

** -TheArtist59 **


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: Dial M. for Murderer. **

The discreet corner café was a hole-in-the-wall a few miles from Baker Street. Thorn and John sipped steaming cups of herbal tea next to a grimy window; rain pattered in methodical drops from a dark and imposing sky. "So, your sister has raised you since your parents died?" John questioned carefully as he stirred a spoonful of brown sugar into his drink. "Yes… Delia has always cared for me: even when they were alive, she was a splendid older sister." The girl traced the floral patterns on her chipped saucer. "You must be very grateful to her then," John mused as he blew on his beverage cautiously. "I am… but I also feel guilty." Her brown eyes sparked with remorse. "Guilty?" the doctor wondered aloud. "Why?" Thorn sighed slightly as she folded her paper napkin into a snowflake, and watched the steam from her cup swirl mystically in the air. "Because she had to give up her dream."

"Her dream?" John's greying eyebrows crotched together and his forehead creased into a worried line. Thorn shredded the paper snowflake. "Delia was accepted into Julliard, in America," she explained quietly. "She was a singer; she would hum lullabies to me at night, and I would hear her practicing in the shower when she thought no one was around to hear." The girl shrugged her creamy shoulders. "But after our parents died, so did her voice. She quit her music career in favor of raising me instead. It's a sacrifice I'll always admire, and always regret for her." She began to twist her ebony hair into a simple braid down her back. John rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the stubble from his unshaven face raw beneath his calloused fingers. "She sounds like an ideal sister; more than ideal, actually," he murmured as he witnessed his tea bag dissolve, the heated water embracing the earthy flavors. "Delia has always been special to me. When she returns, she told me we'd go to this beach in Pembrokeshire: a place called Musselwick Sands. It's the loveliest spot I've ever been to, and an escape from the noise and rush of London." A faint smile threaded her pink lips as she spoke. "She's always taking me on adventures: museums, or galleries, or the woods in the middle of winter…" she trailed off, shaken out of her daze. "But enough about me now… what about you?"

"What _about_ me? I'm not particularly interesting… I'm Sherlock's sidekick, an experienced doctor, worked in the army…" John's words caught in his throat. "I'm not a painter, or a singer… I'm average. Ordinary. And that's okay with me." He realized that he was speaking the truth; but Thorn didn't believe a word of it. "You're hardly ordinary if you can deal with Sherlock Holmes," she scoffed. "And you interest me. You've told us a few childhood stories... they're hilarious." John's lips twitched and he gazed fondly at the girl in front of him. "You must have a talent. Do you play an instrument?" she pressed. "I played the clarinet once, when I was a boy," John revealed in an amused tone. "But as far as talents go, I think I simply have _exceptional _tolerance. Which comes in handy as I'm living with the most difficult man alive," he cackled. Thorn laughed lightly and they finished their tea in a wandering silence, the smoke still rising from their cracked cups.

…

"What are you doing?" Thorn asked quietly as she and John crept over the threshold of 221B. Sherlock was sprawled across the stiff rods of the blue sofa with his luminous eyes silvering in the dimness. "Nicotine Patch. Helps me think." He lifted a delicate hand and waved it slowly so she could view the three patches, round and as white as moons pasted to his skin. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork." He rolled back the crisp, starched white sleeve of his collared shirt and ran a long finger over the circles. "Good news for breathing," countered John with an impatient huff. "Oh, breathing," The detective retorted bitterly. "Breathing's boring." The doctor squinted the silk blue of his eyes and inspected Sherlock's spindly arms. "Is that three patches?" he demanded in a breathless manner; his raven-haired friend steepled his ghostly white hands beneath his chin. "It's a three patch problem." Thorn danced silently to the far window and gazed at the quiet streets below, bathed in dusk. A drunken procession of people smashed liquor bottles on a lamppost; she could see the emerald shards winking in the spatter of the fluorescent glow. A King Spaniel dipped its spotted brown paws into a dark rain puddle and swept his soft tail across the water, his thick white fur dripping and sodden. A boy selfishly wolfed down a ripe pear while his mother scolded him for ruining his appetite. She turned away from the mundane view.

"Can I borrow your phone?" A baritone voice asked as Thorn pointed her small foot and toyed with her black braid. "My phone?" John repeated, examining his wrinkled thumb. "Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website." Sherlock explained, calmly removing a piece of stray lint from his collar. "Mrs. Hudson's got a phone," the doctor pointed out as he stooped, re-lacing his shoe. "Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear." Sherlock batted an eyelash as the lights flickered unexpectedly. John sighed but resigned to handing him his battered mobile. "Here. Might need to fix that bulb," he murmured as the lights flicked on and off again. The detective cupped the phone in between his pale palms and stared unfocusedly at the bare ceiling. "Is your sibling an alcoholic?" Thorn asked timidly. John narrowed his soft eyes and turned to her. "What?"

"I asked if your sibling is an alcoholic," the slight girl repeated as she fixed her gaze on the mobile clutched in her caretaker's hands. "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you have a flat-share- you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." She tucked a wisp of hair behind her left ear. "I noticed them before Sherlock covered the phone with his hands."

"Noticed what?" John demanded.

"Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You would never treat your luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

Wrinkles pruned beneath the roaming blue of the doctor's eyes. "The engraving," he realized, and his voice was warped with wonder. _Harry Watson. From Clara. XXX_ was etched into the soft metal of the grey device. "Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, but this is a young man's gadget. _Could _be a cousin, but you're a war hero who couldn't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently- this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then- six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left _him_, he would have kept it. People do-sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her._ He gave the phone to _you: _That says he wants you to stay in touch. You were looking for cheap accommodation, but you didn't go to your brother for help: that says you got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don't _like his drinking."

"How could you _possibly _know about the drinking?"

Thorn's pink lips twitched and she traced an invisible drawing on a frigid windowpane, listening to the wind howl around the heavy moon as it stretched its white splendor across the indigo sky in fleeting bands. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though," she continued. "Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." She smoothed the periwinkle cotton of her blouse and blew a fallen eyelash from her lid, making a quick wish. _I wish for Cordelia to take me to the beach. _The thick black eyelash drifted into the crisp winter air and disappeared. "That… was amazing." John's gentle though awestruck voice severed her thoughts. "Really?" she wondered as a blush crept up her long white neck. "It was wonderful, extraordinary. Sherlock couldn't have done better." He smiled softly. "Did I get everything right, then?" she inquired hopefully, arching a thin brow. The doctor's crooked grin faded. "Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry _is _a drinker. And Harry's short for Harriet." He twirled a piece of string around his finger, winding it slowly. "Harry's your sister," Thorn echoed blankly as her euphoria crashed like waves on a sea-rock. "_Sister! _How embarrassing." Sherlock chortled from his position on the sofa. "_Hardly _embarrassing," he amended in an amused voice. "And nice catch with the drinking." John shook his head in resignation as the two observers shared a smile.

"So what's this about?-the case?" John questioned the detective as his icy eye examined the nothingness of the peeling ceiling paint. "Her case," he responded in an almost sacred tone. _"Her_ case?" John wandered to the doorjamb and back listlessly, impatiently. "Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake." Sherlock's pupils dilated, huge black spokes hidden in a silver abyss. "Okay, he took her case. So?" the doctor insisted. "It's no use. No other way. We'll have to risk it." Sherlock's aloof voice floated through Thorn's ears, reminding her of summer breezes teasing the grass of England's purple moors in the summer. She cherished the moors in the dawn-loved light, with the tips of rabbit ears peeking above the stems and alfalfa roaming throughout the oak clusters, ripe with leaves. Cordelia took her there often, if only to witness the scald of the sun erupt over the docile hillsides or inhale the scent of spice and lavender and flower. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text." Sherlock's order shook the girl out of her errant thoughts. "Why can't you do it yourself?" John growled knowing it was pointless to ask. "The number on my desk. Text. Now." He barked the last word in a cold voice, enough to send the doctor stamping over to retrieve it- Sherlock rolled his eyes at his dramatic tread. "Wait a minute." John paused in his tracks as he ran a finger over the letters engraved on the paper slip. "This is… Jennifer Wilson's number- Wait. Wasn't that the dead woman?" he cried out incredulously. "Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number." The detective's tender ears twitched with impatience as the room swelled with the faint sound of fingers tapping. "Are you doing it?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"Have you _done_ it?"

"Ye… hang on!" John puffed in concentration.

"These words exactly: _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come."_

"You blacked out?"

"What? No. No!" He swung his lengthy legs over the mahogany coffee table and marched into the cluttered kitchen. "Have you sent it?" He asked his flat-mate. "What's the address?"

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!" He returned to the living room with a brilliantly pink suitcase in his hands and a stony expression as his friend revised and sent the message. Unzipping and flicking open the upper half of the case he revealed the contents: A small bundle of underwear and clothing in multiple shades of repulsive pink, a compact toiletry bag, and a weathered paperback book. "That's… that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case." he outburst.

"Yes, obviously." The detective narrowed his eyes as he studied the contours, ridges, and innards of the piece of luggage. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: _I _didn't kill her." He looked over at Thorn.

"I never said you did," she replied in a calm but delicate voice; Sherlock thought it resembled a song-bird's.

"Why not? Given the text I just had John send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical explanation."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" she teased.

"Now and then yes." The detective paused briefly, gracing Thorn with a quick wink. The small girl tucked her knees beneath her chin and gazed at the light radiating from the corner lamp. "Okay… How did you get this?" John wondered, drawing himself to his favorite old chair like a tide careening into the yellow sands. "By looking," Sherlock replied wryly. "Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention-particularly a man, which is statistically more likely- so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip." He swiftly raked a rough hand through his red-toned curls.

"You got _all _that because the case had to be pink?" John doubted.

"Well it _had _to be pink, obviously." He hummed a memorized tune beneath his breath as John muttered, "Why didn't _I _think of that?" he rolled a palm through the aging blonde of his hair. "Because you're an idiot," the detective quipped lightly. "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is," he tried to fix the offended expression on his flat-mate's face. "Well, _practically _everyone." He glanced meaningfully at Thorn who blinked gratefully in response. The detective clasped his wandering hands together. "Now look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How _could _I?" John complained.

"Her phone." Sherlock lifted his hands into a graceful shrug. "Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one- that's her number there; you just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home," the doctor suggested, trying to be helpful.

"She has a string of lovers. She _never _leaves her phone at home." He sank to the dulling ruby of the carpet and replaced the creased slip of paper; it slithered back to the insides of the suitcase like an albino snake into a dark tunnel. "Why did I just send that text?" John asked. "What was it for?"

"Well, the question is: where is her phone _now?"_ the detective broached the topic in a hushed tone, bordering on the fringe of reverence.

"She could have lost it."

"Yes, or…"

"The murderer," John penciled out methodically. "You think the murderer has her phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a _murderer?_ What good will that do?" His face was as blank as a sheet of rice paper, the kind Delia used for folding into animals or crafts- simple origami. Suddenly, the mobile began to ring in an upbeat tone, as though delighted to be used once more. _Caller I.D: Withheld. _

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her," Sherlock continued, unabashed and immediately ignoring the chimes of the incoming call. "If somebody had just _found _that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer…" he trailed off as the chimes died in a cloud of looming silence. "… would panic." Abruptly he rose from his chair and swished the thick wool of the Belstaff onto his muscular frame before beckoning to Thorn. She tiptoed over to him and let him guide her thin shoulders into her own silver-grey coat which rippled in the light. He led her to the door with John in tow as he wrapped his jacket tightly against his protruding ribs. A familiar twinkle brightened Sherlock's eye as he whispered, "The game is on."

_"__Damn _it!" The doctor cursed as Sherlock and Thorn vanished from view down the rickety stairs to the cramped foyer. He hoped he could keep up.

**A/N: Here's the latest installment! Who's ready for a little action? Thanks you for all of the kind reviews and the follows! This took many, ****_many _****edits until I was pleased with it enough to post. What do you think? Please let me know in the comments! All opinions welcome, don't be shy to critique! What better way to improve your writing? Hopefully a new update will appear soon. I'm on a short break from gymnastics because of an injury so I'll have more time for this. An especial thank-you to:**

**villette**

**ibelieveinguardianangels**

**meganrose10**

**Willow owl **

**Until next time, **

**- TheArtist59**

**Willow owl (Guest): As you are only a guest to this site, and do not have an account, I can't respond to your lovely reviews by PM. I thought I would do it here instead, hoping you'll see it! **

**Thank you for the thoughtful and frankly, incredible, reviews! And (no wonder) I literally couldn't stop smiling after reading them. I'm very glad you're enjoying the story so far- I do try to write something worthwhile, but am always open to criticism. It's nice to have a public story for others to read. I hope you liked this last installment and will continue to check back for the rest! **

**-TheArtist59**


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